A Curious Predicament
by GeminiGemelo
Summary: Disney makes a sequel to The Lion King. Oh, and Shakespeare's alive, too. Think that's weird? Then you must have no idea what happened after that...


**_A/N: _**

_EDIT: ... Or what I was thinking when I wrote this for five hours. It's okay, I don't either. Just have fun, I guess. x) Anyways, in case you aren't familiar with my writing style, the first part is a satiric portrayal of fanfiction. It is supposed to be cliche. x)_

_So, for a basic synopsis, this is a mix between "What if a TLK 4 was made?", "What if Shakespeare had written said movie?", and "What if TLK was written in poetry?" Perhaps even "What if TLK 4 WAS made and we didn't know about it?", although obviously that's preposterous. XD I think the idea for this comes from the fact that I have to write a Shakespearean sonnet for school, and also because we recently read Romeo & Juliet. I am a great admirer of Shakespeare, so this is also a tribute to him. _

_You hear that, Shakespeare? You get a really weird AU fic dedicated to you!_

_He must be so proud._

* * *

"It was a beautiful morning in the Pridelands, and everything was perfect. The sun was shining down on the plains, and a beautiful herd of wildebeest was grazing contentedly on thick strands of thick, green grass. It was a picturesque landscape, complete with tall mountains and flocks of calling geese.

"The land was not the only thing flourishing. The royal family was also flourishing, as the evil and horrifying rule of the tyrant Scar had finally been brought to an end. The new king, Simba, had already become renowned for his just and kind nature, and it was on this beautiful morning that he withdrew to chat with his daughter, Kiara, and his son-in-law Kovu."

'Beautiful day out, isn't it, Kiara?'

'Yes, Simba. It is truly wonderful.'

"At that moment, Kovu came out, a large, beautiful lion with a dark brown pelt, black mane, and a sandy brown muzzle, underbelly, and paw pads, with a black tail tip. His eyes were green. He greeted Kiara with a nuzzle. Kiara was a golden female with light fur on her muzzle, underbelly, and paw pads. Her eyes were blue."

'I agree. It is beautiful out.'

"All was silence as they watched the sunrise. But then a bird came out of nowhere. A blue bird. His name was Zazu, and he was the king's majordomo. He was sweaty and tired, and Simba immediately knew there was bad news. Some horrible, unspeakable evil—perhaps a previously unknown and long forgotten enemy—_must _have threatened to destroy all that they love—"

"Uh, I have a question… do you seriously call this a _script_?"

A heavyset, burly man sat behind his desk, leafing through the messy sheets of paper that had been handed to him only moments before. With a single, calculating movement, he pushed his spectacles onto his nose and continued to glance down at the 'script' which had been scrawled out there. Dissatisfaction was already written across his face, despite the fact that he had only read a few paragraphs. Another man, much younger, stood on the opposite side of the desk, shuffling nervously.

"Y-you don't like it?" The younger man grumbled tiredly, pushing several thick locks of dark hair out of his eyes as he studied the figure behind the desk, which had continued reading.

_Reeee-awwwwwk._

He heard the distinctive sound of a chair creaking in reply, and again looked about to see his older counterpart leaning in towards him, a serious and nonplussed expression on his face.

"Look, when the studio says they want a fourth Lion King movie, we give them a fourth Lion King movie."

"But why?" the script-writer argued, a frustrated and disappointed tone in his voice, "it's going to be a direct-to-video. Only the die-hard fans are going to watch it. Why does it matter if it sucks?"

"Because, Rico, because. A better video makes more money. Show some effort. Besides, your pathetic excuse for a screenplay looks like a fan fiction piece written by a fourteen year-old."

"But sir, this _is _a fan fiction piece written by a fourteen year-old."

There was a long pause as both parties contemplated this, although, in the end, the older man simply dismissed the budding screenplay writer with an indifferent wave of his hand.

"No matter. If you don't write something better, I'll just bring her in here and give her your job. She's probably better anyways. Do you want that?"

Rico shook his head and left the office, frustratingly chucking the ragged, loose-leaf notebook paper into the nearest recycling bin, before settling down to his own office and beginning to write.

However, in the other room, the telephone began to ring. The editor again leaned forwards in his chair to retrieve it, causing another few seconds of creaking to penetrate the still air.

_Crrreeeeeeaaaawkkk._

"Hello, this is Mr. Fredrickson, editor at Disney Studios… What is that…? All right, there's someone outside waiting to see me…? Tell them I'm not in."

Silence.

"A really old guy, you say? …I don't think it's even _possible_ to have a beard _that _long… Look, I don't care how much he wants to see me, I'm _not _in…"

The man slammed the telephone back into the receiver with a growl, leaning back into his chair and watching the door idly. For several minutes he sat in silence, and no one ended up coming in to disturb him.

_I wonder who that was._

* * *

Another day passed at the studio—today, however, was somewhat different in design. All of the important people, including the editors, screenwriters, and animators, among others, were nestled in chairs placed along an oblong wooden table. At the head was the director, a short, skinny man dressed in a suit, tie, and beautifully polished shoes. Something important must have happened.

"Well, this is an emergency meeting. To cut straight to the chase, it seems as though a man is threatening to sue us. The identity of the person has been kept secret—however, he is scheduled to meet us here, in this office, in about ten minutes. Naturally, of course, if he decides to start a lawsuit and demand money from us, we will fight tooth and nail in court—spending many thousands on fees and lawyers—rather than giving him a small amount of the billions this company already has."

Nods of agreement followed.

At that moment, however, the door creaked open slightly. Each person leaned forwards, attempting to get a view of the figure behind the door, but it hadn't been opened far enough to afford any a glimpse of the reclusive form behind it.

Several moments passed.

"You can come in, Mister... what was your name, again?"

The director called out loudly, waiting in suspense as the door remained there, only open a crack.

Several more moments passed.

"Sorry, young lads," an old, worn, and tired rasp was heard from behind the opening, effectively surprising everyone present, "I was just preparing myself. 'All the world's a stage', as they say."

The man finally pushed past the opening, revealing himself to the crowd sitting at the table. Each of them let out an inadvertent gasp in shock, as he was perhaps the oldest looking man they had ever seen. A long, white beard stretched out from his chin, practically touching the floor as he walked—with the aid of a cane—across the floor. Thick wrinkles covered every surface of his skin, and unsightly liver spots peppered his face.

"Uh, who are you?" one of the animators queried curiously, speaking the question that was on everyone's mind.

"I'm Shakespeare!"

There was another pause.

"No, really, _who are you_?"

Silence.

The director stood up in his seat, something between a shocked expression and a smirk written on his face. He wasn't sure whether the man was simply playing a prank, or was delivering an impossible truth. Normally, of course, he would have regarded anything so ridiculous as a falsity, but the man _did _look like he was about four hundred and fifty years old…

"I know what you're thinking—'how is he still alive?' you may ask. But, I'm sorry to say, that is not important. In any case, I found a problem with your movie, The Lion King. It seems very, _very _similar to my own work, Hamlet. And, as you know, that violates copyright law."

"How do you know about The Lion King? Also, we thought you were dead! No, wait, you _are _dead!"

The old man chuckled.

"Of course I know about The Lion King! I've kept up with the modern world, of course. Ah, the memories… _It's the cirrrrrrrrcle of liiiiiiiiifeeee._"

The men all watched—some in awe, and some in blatant confusion—as he began singing 'The Circle of Life' verbatim, seemingly in his own world until the song ended, at which point he straightened up and looked the director seriously in the eye.

"Anyways, I thought I would simply let it go. And when you based the sequel off of Romeo and Juliet… well, I decided to let that one go as well. 'Let the youngsters have some fun', I told myself. But anyways, that's unimportant. I hear that you were going to make a third sequel, a fourth addition to your trilogy, and that's when I decided I should make my presence known. For you see, I'm a very big fan of the movies, and I know you meant no disrespect to my work. If it's alright with you, I'd rather not sue. It only needlessly complicates things. I'd rather like to cut a sort of deal with you, if you're alright with that."

"And what would that be?" the director asked surreptitiously, raising one eyebrow in a suspicious glare.

"Introduce the children to the wonders of poetry! Yes, yes, the _wonderful _world of poetry! Ever line will be a sonnet, every word beautiful and flowing! Show them the joys of blank verse, the quatrains after quatrains of iambic pentameter! Now, you see, those were the best of my days… sitting at home and writing all those plays!"

He stood up on one of the chairs, his small, old form becoming animated—no pun intended—as he passionately continued his discourse. Many of the animators had begun to look on admiringly, while the scriptwriters only looked up in confusion.

"Wait, you're writing the script for this movie, right?"

"Ah, now, that's the good part. I wouldn't want to take all your jobs away, now, would I? _You all _will get to write it. You will all finally see the joy of poetry—the joy that I felt when I wrote. I know you won't disappoint," he ended with a sincere smile directed at each man at the table. Most only nodded in agreement, seemingly liking the preposterous idea.

"But I can't write a sonnet!" Rico interjected, panic overtaking his features as he pointedly scrabbled at the papers of script on his desk.

"Ah, well," the editor said, leaning forwards in his chair, "you couldn't write to begin with, anyways. Rico, you're fired."

"I hate my life," the younger man muttered, gathering up his papers and belongings and leaving without another word.

"Well, what the heck," the director started with an air of boldness, seemingly entranced by the old man's speech, "if it prevents a lawsuit, then why not? No one will watch the movie anyways."

* * *

It was a beautiful day in the African savannah, and several lions were dozing about in the heat of the early morning. Each of them was merely a drawing, an animated character, but all this time it seemed as though they had been given life of their own. Indeed, the Pridelands was its own little world, in a separate bubble of space and time—affected to a certain extent by the real world outside, but at the same time a living, breathing microcosm in its own right.

Kiara awoke first, yawning stolidly and stretching out her limbs in the plentiful grass which surrounded her. For a moment she stood there, studying the landscape of her home, before she walked slowly over to Kovu, nudging him in the shoulder in an attempt to wake him. There was a momentary pause as she continued to push him, but after several moments he finally stirred through his slumber. His eyes blinked open sleepily, and after a few seconds of stretching and yawning, he stood next to his mate.

"Hello," he whispered softly.

"Hello."

He looked off over the horizon, strangely hopeful. Someday, _he _would be king of all of this. A part of him was worried, and yet, at the same time, he almost couldn't wait. The present king—his predecessor—finally showed himself over the crest of a hill, walking down towards the couple with a light-hearted smile on his face.

"—"

The king had been about to speak, but was interrupted when Zazu dove out of the sky, dripping with sweat and seemingly terrorized by something. Each lion waited in anticipation, hairs bristling in fear, as Zazu hid behind the king, ready to say what was troubling him.

"Sire, pause and listen to my discourse!

For you see, disaster is brewing there,

Thick and dark like the harbinger of storms,

Which dares to block out Apollo's bright rays!"

Each lion and lioness stopped for a moment. This was not… normal… even for Zazu. Kovu looked over at Kiara, who looked at Simba. Unanimous confusion was written on their faces as they looked back at the messenger, their expressions all seemingly saying the exact same word.

_What?_

"Zazu, brave messenger, I know not what—"

Kiara clasped a paw quickly over her mouth, shock in her eyes as the train of words unconsciously escaped her lips.

"Simba, my king, it seems to me as though

Kiara and Zazu are afflicted

By horrible and mysterious ails.

We must consult our shaman Rafiki."

There was another pause as Kovu's shock nearly mirrored that of Kiara's, and he looked about, almost as though searching for whatever had caused to him to spout such non-comprehensible gibberish. All he found, however, was the being he had just mentioned—Rafiki, who was standing silently on a nearby rock, a rueful and solemn expression on his countenance. Simba spoke up, dreading what would happen next…

"Rafiki, we were about to commence

A search for thee, to seek your wise knowledge.

Alas, gather up thine herbs and poisons

And, if you know, report what ails our speech."

* * *

It was another long day at the studio for the screenwriters. Most of them were exhausted, as attempting to conjure up a script in sonnet had sapped much of their energy. The long, late hours they had spent silent and hunched over their desks had rendered most of them as little more than zombies, half-heartedly trudging from one place to the next. Through it all, however, Shakespeare remained hopeful and upbeat, urging them forwards with a consistently cheery tune day after day. He never failed to be the first to arrive at the studio, and was typically one of the last to leave. As weeks passed, however, the rest of the crew was becoming more and more hopeless that the movie would be completed by its deadline. Several of them resolved to meet with Shakespeare about it, though they doubted they would get very far. Their arguments were varied, but in the end, he seemed mostly unyielding.

'…sir, do we really have to write each line in iambic pentameter? I don't think…'

'…tiring. Does this passage really have to rhyme? Can't it just be blank like this other part…? Because _I_ think that…'

'…will _never _be able to complete the movie in time…'

However, after much begging and pleading, a single compromise was reached. Later that day, the old man gathered the crew together and announced the change. It wasn't as much as they had hoped for, although, in the end, the tired and battered writers were grateful for any respite at all.

"Gentleman, I understand that some of you are not as fond of poetry as I. Alas, your many hours of labor may seem to have gone to waste. And, as thus, I will allow you to write one particular set of characters in prose—simply because I enjoy their wonderful and humorous puns. That is all, however. The rest must be written in sonnet, as I have said before. I appreciate each of your efforts and I know that I will be proud of the end result."

And, as such, he began his discourse about the first major change to the script…

* * *

A plethora of animals was gathered around Rafiki's tree, many of them afflicted with the mysterious and profound change in speech that had also affected the royal family. Nearly every animal which could indeed speak was outraged, complaining loudly in outdated, Elizabethan-era English. Even from far away, the mob which had gathered there at the baobab was still audible, startling the birds nearby and disturbing the usually calm, pleasant atmosphere. It had spread like an out-of-control virus seemingly overnight, affecting all the savannah animals.

Except for three.

"What's with all that noise?" A small dark form queried, hiding in a bush to watch the procession from afar.

"I dunno, Banzai, but I don't like it. We should continue onwards. That dimwitted bird saw us. He's probably already blabbed to Simba. If we want to be successful and take over the Pridelands, we have to be ready for our attack."

Banzai obeyed, treading across the grassy ground as he signaled for a band of other hyenas to follow. Slowly but surely, like a shadow, they made their way across the hot, dry savanna landscape. They paused again, somewhat closer to the tree, listening in on the loud and boisterous complaints issuing from its surroundings. Ed, of course, only punctuated the raucous noise with his trademark hysterical laughter.

"_Quiet_," Banzai snapped, elbowing his companion in the side and ignoring the pitiable squeak that he emitted. Of course, it didn't exactly matter much whether Ed laughed or not. Considering their surroundings, there was little chance of being detected anyways.

"Why are they all talking like that?" Shenzi muttered almost silently, glancing over at the crowd in utter confusion. Ed followed suit, glaring over curiously, seemingly mesmerized as he made his way towards the din—before Shenzi could stop him.

"No, Ed, wait! No, Ed! Ed! Come back!"

Shenzi whispered as loudly as she dared, only watching hopelessly and helplessly as her friend and comrade made his way towards the already frightened animals.

The response was profound and immediate. The animals backed up in fright, retreating into the savannah and seemingly ignoring their little predicament as they ran away. Shenzi knew she had to act, but didn't know what to do.

"No, wait, where are you going?" Banzai called out after them instead. It was a rash thing to do, and probably made the animals' fear greater, but it was the only thing he could think of doing…

"Wait, friends, and look towards the being thither.

He may be a dark, beastly predator,

But, alas, he does not share in our pain.

O, how there must be a heavenly cure!"

A particularly plucky gazelle called out, demanding the animals' attention as they stopped racing away and turned around. Several began to glance at the hyena longingly, wishing again for the ability to speak in prose. Before Banzai was even aware of what was happening, a crowd of fauna had gathered around him, demanding that he share with them what the cure was, and how he had freed himself of the horrible burden of speaking in iambic pentameter. Even Rafiki, tired because of all the animals he had talked to that day, had approached him, politely asking what had happened to him. Banzai, however, had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, as he had never been afflicted with the plague in the first place.

At that moment, Simba and the rest of the royal family appeared, unaware that the hyenas were what Zazu had been talking about, and also unaware of their plans to kill him and take over the Pridelands. Needless to say, there was no way that the attack could be successfully executed—not now, with all the animals around.

Simba walked up to the hyena silently, none of his features showing anger like they had expected. Instead of looking reproachful, his face was one of mere ruefulness. He recognized Banzai, the same hyena that had tried to kill him as a cub, but did nothing threatening.

"Hello, dear friend—I understand the truth

That our pasts have been shrouded in darkness.

But I implore you all to join us here,

In the accepting light of forgiveness."

The hyena stared into Simba's eyes, and then back at Shenzi, who had already withdrawn from the bush she had been hiding in. She looked forwards in awe, and slowly motioned for the other hyenas to follow as a single tear dripped from her cheek…

* * *

"Wait, an alliance between Simba and the hyenas? That wouldn't last long at all…" the old man said in dismay, leafing through the last few pages of the latest—and thickest—copy of the script. He read several more pages in silence, before turning and facing the man who had handed it to him.

"Well, what do you want me to do? We are near the end anyways. The hyenas already joined the Pridelanders."

"Did they really?" Shakespeare said quietly, swiveling his chair around slightly, "In words and deed, yes. But in heart and soul… I don't think so. In fact…" he murmured, a grin coming to his face, "I think it should end the way _all _my stories end. Oh yes, brilliant!" he yelled with an excited laugh, rapidly pulling out a sheet of paper and scribbling on it. "Yes, yes, it will be… just like Hamlet! And Romeo and Juliet! Hahahaha-_ha_!"

The man only stood there worriedly, concerned about where this was going…

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night in the savanna. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and bright streaks of lightning split open the sky and let forth a torrent of rain from the heavens. Every crawling creature of the night had either retreated into a burrow or was searching for a place to get out of the rain. All, that is, except for the Pridelanders and the gang of hyenas gathered on the top of a rocky plateau. A certain tension was in the air, a certain thickness… a battle seemed all but inevitable.

"You wretched beast, you backstabbing traitor!

All but willing to take my misgivings—

Righteous as they were—and secretly plot

Your insidious mutiny towards me!"

Simba yelled out into the night angrily, pacing back and forth, teeth bared in red-hot rage as he glared daggers at Banzai, who was standing in a defensive posture across from him. Kiara wanted to interject, to try and stop the inevitable, but Kovu held her back, reassuring his mate that what Simba was doing was the right thing.

"What, foul monster, do you have to say?"

Banzai stood there indignantly, glancing at the Pridelanders with a brusque, yet calm, smirk.

"There is nothing to say. I will avenge what you did to Scccaaaaaaaarrr!"

* * *

"Wait, the hyenas killed Scar, didn't they? I thought they didn't like him."

The editor, Mr. Fredrickson, again sat back in his chair. He looked expectantly at the man who was sitting across the desk from him—a small man whose form had been made even smaller from the long, exhausting hours at the studio—but received only an indifferent shrug in reply.

"They do now, I guess."

Glancing back at the script, the older man looked back at him sternly.

"Alright, alright, I'll change it. I was tired, okay? Are we almost done with the preproduction?"

"Well, we would have to be to finish on time. You know how we hate extending deadlines. The soundtrack is already finished, but the animators will have to work overtime to get this out on video…"

He cast a hopeless glance down at the script, and the writer's hunched form hobbled away without another word…

* * *

"What, foul monster, do you have to say?"

Banzai stood there indignantly, glancing at the Pridelanders with a brusque, yet calm, smirk.

"There is nothing to say. Our differences are too great for us to coexist. This was not a union between the two different prides of lions, as it was when Kiara and Kovu were in love. We are talking about lions and hyenas! I can promise you—or, as you would say in your ridiculous poetry—'I swear on my honor', that I will avenge my kind for the things you've done to us!"

Banzai leapt at the king with his fangs bared, though the Pridelanders were too shocked to enter the fray. However, Banzai was not without backup. With roughly equal numbers, it was obvious that, without a peaceful resolution, the battle would be quite long and arduous…

Simba hopped backwards, barely dodging the hyena's first blow, before whirling around and attempting to kick him. It worked—a sharp thud was heard, and Banzai's unconscious form quickly slipped to the ground. The hyenas were immediately outraged at the fall of their leader's second-in-command, and they continued to race ever faster towards Simba's furious body. The lionesses were finally provoked into action, causing a violent clash as they collided with the hyenas. Leonine roars and high-pitched squeaks of pain began to echo across the landscape as teeth and claws flashed in the light of the stormy, thunderous night.

Banzai, who was still lying on the ground in a comatose state, was quickly trampled under the tread of the lionesses' sharp-clawed paws as they gained ground against their adversaries. The first casualty.

Simba glanced around as the battle unfolded, catching sight of many familiar lionesses—all fighting for their lives—as he forcefully backhanded a hyena that had leapt at his throat. Above all, he searched for his daughter, who had disappeared somewhere into the brawl, apparently unafraid of the dangers of war. The protective part of him continued to search nonetheless, as he was all too aware that she could be the next one to die.

As the fight waged on, more and more bodies had begun to appear across the field of battle. The crash of the lightning illuminated the bloody scene before the warriors, allowing them to see the increasing number of wounded and dead. Loved ones called out to one another in their dying breaths, the life within them dissipating into the cold and merciless air.

Finally, things were beginning to die down as the number of fighters decreased. Most of the hyenas were dead, except for Shenzi, Ed, and a few others. Simba and Kiara were the only lions still able to fight. While a few lions, including Kovu, had died, many had been wounded or knocked unconscious. Fueled by rage and the desire to protect his child, Simba waded through the midst of the fighting in order to find her. Just in time to see her cornered by Shenzi, Ed and two other deadly-looking hyenas…

"Kiara, I see thou hast need of me!

I am coming to your aid—wait just one

Small moment and I shall be at your side

Through thick and thin, like a warrior's shield."

By the time he had finished his quatrain, however, the four small, lurking forms had advanced on her simultaneously. She had tried to ward them off, but she was failing, gradually succumbing to the blows of her enemies. Simba ran faster than ever, trying to get to her in time, but he was too far away. There was no way he would get to her in time. He was too late, and could only watch as she disappeared under the hyenas…

"I shall smite thee, cowardly Scaramouch!"

And he did, quickly picking off three surprised hyenas before they could even attack him. Only Ed was left, pinned under his grasp with a horrified look on his face. But it didn't change anything. Kiara was dying, and there was nothing he could do.

"You… your kind killed my beautiful daughter,

Who was no more than a tender rose bud,

About to blossom into a flower.

From now on, your kind is banished from here."

With that, he let Ed go, and collapsed into the mud next to his daughter, crying until he could cry no more. He didn't leave, even after she was long gone. The lion only stayed there, watching as the storm gradually stopped and the sun dawned over the horizon. All was silent, and, with a broken heart, Simba yelled towards the sky.

"Why, _why _merciless ruler of the sky,

Hast thou seen fit to take my only gift?

Now, as with bliss, my time will never fly.

Let my soul meet death, and away I'll drift."

With that, the mighty Simba collapsed to the ground, dead.

The aftermath of that day was significant. Hyena-kind fled the realm, never returning to the Pridelands. With the royal family dead, it was up to the surviving lionesses to create a new kingdom. From out of the ashes rose a new monarch—stronger and better than the rest, although his subjects never forgot Simba, his daughter Kiara, and his heir Kovu.

Ed was the only surviving hyena. Although he played almost no part in the story, and wasn't even able to speak, he still was somehow able spread the word of the royal family's history to his prodigy.

The end.

* * *

"That's a wrap!"

Three years had passed at the studio, and the movie had, to everyone's great relief, finally been finished. Now all of the crew—writers, animators, actors, editors, the director, and even the old man himself—had gathered into a small, tightly packed room to watch the finished product for the first time. Large buckets of popcorn were distributed between them, and the general air was that of vague excitement and pride. Each person settled down comfortably into a chair, watching with awe as the Disney logo flitted onto the screen.

Over the next two hours, the audience watched the fruits of their labors—the hand-drawn animation with its typical bright colors, the nice voices lent to the characters by the actors, and even a medley of original songs and score pieces thought up by the music department. But as time drifted by, the crew became less and less enthused about the movie as a whole. They rustled their seats impatiently and even became engaged in impromptu 'popcorn fights' to quell their boredom. As much as they had worked on the movie—which had cost them a fortune in time, energy, labor, and money—its outcome was somewhat disappointing. By the time it had reached its end, which had been edited somewhat to maintain a G-rating, everyone was significantly depressed and dejected. If they could hardly stand to watch it, how would a child be able to tolerate it?

The credits faded to black and the lights turned back on. Hopeless and frustrated, each member of the audience unknowingly turned towards Shakespeare, hoping to find some words of encouragement or pride in their efforts.

But he was asleep. Sound asleep.

"Hey, wake up!" someone shouted from the back, as several people tried to nudge him awake. But all of their efforts were in vain. Finally, he fell limply out of his chair and remained motionless on the floor.

"He's dead!"

Several gasps were heard momentarily as everyone glanced down at him, rising up from their chairs in shock.

"Well, whaddya expect? He's almost five hundred years old!" an artist from the back yelled irritably, not very moved by his sudden demise. After several seconds, they realized he was correct, and indifferently sat back down, glancing once again at the black void.

"So, what should we do? We finished the movie. Think we should start selling it?"

There was a long pause as everyone looked around, genuinely puzzled expressions on their faces. An indistinct murmur ran through the crowd as they discussed it, many people motioning emphatically towards the blank emptiness on the projector screen.

The director rose from his seat, effectively silencing everyone. He smirked, looking towards the cast that had worked for so long on the movie he had been forced to make—by an impossibly old man, no less. All of this was so ridiculous, so preposterous… he looked towards the front of the room where the movie had been projected one last time before he decided his answer…

"Nah, they'll do fine without it."

* * *

_Well, I guess you could call that... a parody...? Of poetry, Shakespeare, and fanfiction. XD To be honest, I think some of those quatrains were pretty good, if I do say so myself. o.O Especially considering I'd never written in iambic pentameter until last week. xD_

_See you all next week for a story that will be significantly less weird. I promise! :p_

_-Twin out (;_


End file.
